Street Fighting Man
by benignmilitancy
Summary: It's his favorite song. An anthem, really, to all the restless men-children like him that wander the streets mid-July. It's his one way of telling us who he is and what he does: his single declaration that we can't change it. We can only cope with it.


_Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders or "Street Fighting Man"._

_A/N: "Street Fighting Man" came out in 1968. That's the year this fic is set in._

* * *

><p><em>Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy<em>  
><em>'Cause summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy<em>  
><em>But what can a poor boy do<em>  
><em>Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band<em>  
><em>Cause in sleepy London town<em>  
><em>There's just no place for a street fighting man<em>  
><em>No<em>

_Hey! Think the time is right for a palace revolution_  
><em>But where I live the game to play is compromise solution<em>  
><em>Well, then what can a poor boy do<em>  
><em>Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band<em>  
><em>Cause in sleepy London town<em>  
><em>There's no place for a street fighting man<em>  
><em>No<em>

_Hey! Said my name is called disturbance_  
><em>I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants<em>  
><em>Well, what can a poor boy do<em>  
><em>Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band<em>  
><em>Cause in sleepy London town<em>  
><em>There's no place for a street fighting man<em>  
><em>No<em>

* * *

><p><strong>xXx<strong>

Like a bad curse_, Street Fighting Man_ crackles to life; and with it, that feeling rising in my gut again. That feeling that I want to throw up because I've got a steaming pot of poison bubbling down there, the feeling that there's a cap let loose and I'm gonna blow.

Momma says nothing at the noise, burrowing her head in the couch pillows. Mal's asleep in her lap like a pug dog. I don't know where Curly is. No one asks where Curly is. I think they almost forget his name. I struggle to remember even mine.

The television fizzles a little as some sugary blonde reporter forecasts rain. I soggily start for the stairs, toward the source of the noise; I can't begin to imagine the hell boiling in the tar world outside.

It's his favorite song. An anthem, really, to all the restless men-children like him that wander the streets mid-July. It's his one way of telling us who he is and what he does: his single declaration that we can't change it. We can only cope with it. But despite that, Momma's tried. She's tried to send him and Curly both to reform school; and only one of them stayed.

She keeps her stare focused on the television. Momma can't keep him away; she can yell at him, she can keep him locked up in his room, but it's ninety-two degrees outside. Summer calls the hot-blooded devils like sirens to sailors.

He wears his A-shirt under a leather jacket and his blue jeans, and sweat glistens on his face like a row of diamonds in the dirt. He slips out when it's hottest, 'cause only sane people wait till it cools down to sneak outta the house, and Momma has no clue how crazy her little prince is.

Momma likes to fuss over the injuries he gets, but he knows it's all bull. He's old enough to know it, at least. Heck, old enough to know to keep his trap shut about it. Sometimes I wonder why he comes home all beat-up like that, though, why he still smiles at me when he can hardly see out of his swollen eyes.

The landing beside his room is strewn with dirty clothes. To the left of the door is everything he owns: a bed and a phonograph player with one record propped against it.

Sometimes he sits in his bed like he's stuck in prison, waiting for the bail to come through. The windowsill is pockmarked with cigarette stains and his initials carved in the wood. There's only one window in his room, and it looks out to the train tracks outside.

Cars howl out there. Gas guzzlers sputter angrily at their owners; furors dressed in wilted white collars yank at dogs' leashes.

Sunlight pours in all its fury on his head, browning it. The curls lay loose against his face. He's dead in the throes of sleep. One arm dangles from the bed. Three blankets drape him; the record spins in the phonograph an endless revolution.

He plays _Street Fighting Man_ when he's depressed. He plays _Street Fighting Man_ when his boys whip those snobby jetsetters good. He plays _Street Fighting Man_ in the winter; he plays _Street Fighting Man_ to get Momma and Mal and Curly tied up in knots, when the house is too quiet and there's nothing to fill it with; he plays _Street Fighting Man_ before he goes out; he plays _Street Fighting Man_ after bed; he plays _Street Fighting Man_ when he drinks too much and lies in bed watching the ceiling rafters crumble.

**xXx**

Last weekend, he broke curfew, pulled up two hours late in his buddy's Chevy. Mal threw a bottle of Jack out the window, missing his head by a few inches. A crash sounded in the street as curses flew between them. Then, when they were done, he ripped the door open, marched up to his room, locked it, and blared the record as high as it would go.

Yet he smiles when I ask him why Momma punished him for it. Momma laments and makes a big fuss out of it in front of other people, he says, but the moment the door hinges click she breaks down and yells at him like he's a six-year-old trapped in a twenty-year-old's body.

I tell him maybe she's onto something there, and he simply stares at me.

**xXx**

People get restless in the summer. Tomcats and queens roam the streets, looking for some semblance of love, some lost scent that reminds them of affection. But that kind of love tends to dry up, tends to dissolve a mirage in the mist.

I went to a party and met a boy. A handsome boy, a nice boy. A boy who could've gotten me outta here. A boy who liked me, a boy who I liked. He'd had smiling, simple light blue-green eyes. My friends thought he was ugly, but he looked so precious when he smiled, like when you watch a baby play in the dirt. You tell yourself: you must have seen that dirt a thousand times, your rational mind knowing it's probably filthy and disease-ridden, but right then your heart fills up with warmth. That _feeling_.

For the first time in my life, I thought I could have really loved someone. I didn't think of him as a restless tomcat. He called me Angie instead of Angel. Everyone who calls me Angel has a hint of irony on their face when they say it, like my name is an inside joke. But not him. I wasn't a joke.

I was just another mirage. I sure didn't _feel_ like a mirage, though, when I woke up with my eyelids sticking together and heavy liquids sloshing in my gut and a bone-dry sensation being shoved down my throat.

I tried to scream, but he told me to be quiet. Tears filled in his eyes; he told me to be quiet, but ...

Last night, I threw up in the bathtub. Then I dressed in my nightgown, climbed into bed, listened to the coal shipments and cried.

The place I'd sat down was drenched in blood.

**xXx**

He's packing up and I have no idea why. All I know is that he's leaving. And somehow I know he won't come back. Why? Because he's one of those men. You can see it in their eyes: once they leave, they leave for good.

Yet the words _Good-bye_ are eluding me. I can only stand here in the corner of his room and watch him try to stuff a black jacket into a paper bag. A wall of rock sits in my throat, damming the words below.

He's not meant to be stuck here, and Curly's not meant to be stuck here, but ... what about me? How can I say I always do everything wrong? I have no money, no job, no experiences. If there is something I can contribute to the world, I'd really love to hear it. One reason. I just need one reason, and I'll run away with my brother and never look back.

But not a one comes. Thoughts just flit back and forth inside my mind; they're worse than the hollowness that drips on the edges of my insides.

I swallow.

_You're really going, huh?_

No response but the rustling of clothes.

_When you say it's going to happen ... when?_

_I can't say for sure, Ang_, he says. _Now. Tomorrow. Years later. Maybe never, even. _

_I'm scared_, I tell him. _I can't stay here, but you're not letting me out there, either_.

I wonder if all he's seen when he's looked at me was a ghost. My body remains here, but my heart flies elsewhere.

Outside is freedom, the temple of the sun, the promised land where spirits like mine wander the streets. It is a hard, hot world, but I'd rather burn in the flames of the sun than freeze in the darkness.

The first memory I have is sitting on the porch on an August night, watching moths flit about the porch light as he and his buddies toss cards around on the platform. He never thought I was a stupid little kid; he never thought my being a girl meant I couldn't play. Curly may have, but he never did. He never did.

He held each card in front of me, telling me their names. My little head swam with reds and blacks and yellows ... he could see the confusion in my eyes, so he'd set each one down, giving each card a story. The King was married to the Queen. Their son was a Jack, and he had nine children. They had a pet dog named Ace.

He taught me how to play solitaire, blackjack, euchre, war: how to count the numbers in each card. How to bluff. How to read people's faces and the many masks they wear. Some people, he taught me, wear masks on top of masks. Some people switch masks with others. And sometimes, he said, you're actually wearing each other.

_I'm scared_, I say again, and this time I mean it.

He walks up to me.

Smiles that broken smile, just for me.

Closes the door.

**xXx**

I hate The Rolling Stones. I hate rock and roll; I hate his empty messy bed and his hot stuffy room even worse than my own. I hate his odor of cigarettes and I hate the silence he leaves me behind with.

I pick up the record and I set it gently in the ancient socket. I need to remind myself to put a quarter on the needle because it tends to skip if I don't. But even after a few frantic searches through torn winter coat pockets, I can't find a single cent. So I just set a bottle cap on top of the needle instead.

The song I hate the most fizzles in the air like the poison in my stomach.

I sit in the dust he leaves behind and just stare at the record, at his memory. Wallow in the sunlight and the July heat and the fizzle of life dissolving.

Then I lay in the bed and watch the ceiling rafters crumble.

**xXx**

* * *

><p><em>But what can a poor boy do<em>  
><em>Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band<em>  
><em>Cause in sleepy London town<em>  
><em>There's just no place for a street fighting man<em>  
><em>No<em>

* * *

><p><em>AN: So this is an introspection into the Shepard lives, particularly Angela's and Tim's. (I'm still shying away from Curly's POV after "Silence is Just Another Word for Love" ... brrrr.) Introspection, description, angst, I know, I know, not much plot. I'm not quite into full-length fic mode just yet, but I'm getting there. _

_The idea here is that Angela and Tim are virtually prisoners in their own home, in their own community. Your mileage may vary. ;p Anyway, Tim and Curly lash out with their bad behavior, while Angela turns her hurt inward, harming herself by rushing headfirst into relationships and being clingy to Tim and such. Tim, when he's in this prison, hangs on by listening to "Street Fighting Man", the only good representation of him and what he has. He sacrifices this prized possession to Angela when he runs away, giving her a reason to hang on, a slice of his hope. But she needs a different kind of hope._

_A/N: Also, as a note to the other one-shot, in "Good Morning, Vietnam," Soda and Steve played a prank on another soldier, got caught, and got punished for it. What Steve's doing with the grenades is something I'd heard; someone told a story about a guy who mouthed off to the senior officers and had to stand there pulling the pins off of grenades as punishment. I went, O.O and just had to write a story about it. So that's what's up with that._

_I have no explanation to the train wreck that was the last chapter of "Tappin' Maples" except that I hadn't eaten anything that day, so I was all funny. You know, not ha-ha funny, that other kinda funny. (bad poker face) I'm tryin', folks, I really am tryin'._

_Review!_


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